


In the Bulk

by hitlikehammers



Category: True Detective
Genre: Character Study, Gen, M/M, Post-Series, References to Interstellar (2014), Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 21:41:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2827040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're on the couch. Separate sides. Only way they know the other’s there is the stretch of feet past their rightful half of the space, stickin’ out and pokin’ into a knee that don’t want nothin’ to do with 'em.</p><p>And how someone’s feet could get so damn cold underneath those inch-thick tube socks is beyond Marty’s comprehension, to be quite frank, but ain’t nothing about Rust Cohle ever made much real sense.</p><p>And to be fair, Marty doesn’t tell him to move the suckers, either, so s’probably half his own fault, really. Which seems to be about right, between them, in general.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Bulk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [speakmefair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakmefair/gifts).



> Just a tiny ficlet (that I couldn't put in the Yuletide Madness collection because she didn't request this fandom for Yuletide) to wish [speakmefair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/speakmefair) a very Happy Holiday :)
> 
> And yes, they're watching _Interstellar_. It was a scene I couldn't get out of my head. Which also accounts for the title, as a reference to [higher-dimensional space](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brane_cosmology).

S’gettin’ late. Maybe. Probably, it’s gettin’ late.

They’re on the couch. It’s a decent couch, for two old men with nothin’ much but the couch. And the TV. And some cigs and some beers and each other, and fuck. Fuck, but that’s where they are, now, ain’t it. That’s where this thread led to, when pulled.

Fuckin’ hell. 

But fine. Is what it is—probably where it was always gonna end up. Sumthin’ like that. On the couch. Separate sides. Only way they know the other’s there is the stretch of feet past their rightful half of the goddamned space, stickin’ out and pokin’ into a knee that don’t want nothin’ to do with 'em.

And how someone’s feet could get so goddamn fucking cold underneath those fucking inch-thick tube socks is beyond Marty’s comprehension, to be quite frank, but ain’t nothing about Rust Cohle ever made much real sense.

And to be fair, Marty doesn’t tell him to move the suckers, either, so s’probably half his own fault, really. Which seems to be about right, between them, in general.

‘Cause much as Marty’s tried to outsource the blame on shit over the years, particularly where Rust is concerned? It’s never been nothing but a two-way street for them. A dance that needs a fucking partner.

And neither one of ‘em had ever been up for stepping off the floor.

So it’s their own damn faults. S’what it is.

And, well, y’know. Rust hates the fuckin’ cold, so.

Credits are rolling. Marty doesn’t think he got more than half the plot, which he suspects may just be better’n most woulda done: all black holes and solar flares and space stations and time travel and what the fuck not. Not his bag. Interesting. Objectively.

Just not his fuckin’ bag.

Rust, though. 

It’s all about the light and the dark in the sky for him, still; it was maybe always ‘bout the light and the dark and the sky, that’d make sense. In that it don’t make much sense.

But if those eyes were seemin’ brittle for a while, there, before—if he’d been full o’ holes here and there for a split second and a half, then he’s somethin’ different now; he’s somethin’ topped off and brimmin’, now, and it’s a captivating thing. Marty’s not too proud to say it, not about to do it wrong by callin’ it out as somethin’ less.

“S’a goddamn shame.”

And Rust grabs for the Camel Blues, flicks a light, breathes deep, drags long. Marty tips his bottle sharp, and Marty don’t drink too much, these days. 

But he don’t drink too little, neither. 

Circumstances, you understand.

And fuck if Marty knows what Rust’s talkin’ about, what part of this shit offends his sensibilities enough to be a goddamn shame. Marty don’t know the science parts well enough to judge if they were right or real fuckin’ wrong—coulda gone either way, from what he did get. Looked good enough, on their shitty fucking television screen. And that’s gotta count for somethin’, right?

S’gotta count for somethin’.

But whatever. Whatever counts, or whatever’s right, and whatever’s naggin’ in Rust’s head—  
the darkness beneath the darkness, the warm substance—it strikes hard, he suspects. To be reminded. Because it has to have reminded him, Marty figures, all the bright and the dim and the runnin’ and the fightin’ and the floatin’ up above and the comin’ back down, all the leaving and the losing and the father with his kid; s’gotta strike some chord there, in a man like that, with a past like his. S’gotta be rough, to have it all laid out in color, like that; to drive home that time and what it meant, those moments and what they felt like: to be a part of being, with those blurred definitions, to let go and to come back and to hate.

And then to watch the story play out, different. Removed. Someone else’s heartbreak. Someone else’s tears runnin’ hot. Someone else wakin’ up to find they don’t have to wake up, not like that. Not with that hurt.

Marty wonders if Rust makes up stories about the stars, anymore. Wonders if this one was anything like Rust’s own. Wonders if they did it wrong.

Wonders maybe if they did it better, and that’s what stings the most.

But it’s just one story, ain’t it. There’s only just the one story. S’what it’s all about. Landgrab. Insubstantial territories. 

Form and the fuckin’ void. 

And Rust was right, ‘course he was. Marty’s got a debt, yeah. So sue him. S’on the inside, though, and hell if Rust knows that for sure, rather than just speculation, just suspicion—but hell if Rust fuckin’ _knows_.

And a man does remember his debts, that’s true. And when a man’s left a thing undone, when he’s short-changed the good work, he goes back.

He fixes it.

And it’s all just one story, really. It’s a story about how long it takes to turn around and face what’s left behind you. It’s a story of fixing whatever’s still left in the dust to be fixed.

And maybe one day he’ll stop living in the past; maybe one day, they both will.

“S’a goddamn shame love don’t work like that.”

Those fuckin’ ice cube toes twitch, though: they burrow under Marty’s thigh just a little further, and okay.

Okay.

Maybe they’ve both been lookin’ at it wrong.


End file.
